


Have you heard about the food truck fic?

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FoodTruckLock, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, inappropriate uses of kitchen implements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-06 15:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Only at con...





	1. Chapter 1

No customers. Nary a one since this cretin pulled up behind him in the car park. He couldn’t see the name of the truck, but the smell told him all he needed to know. And it was interfering with the immersive experience he usually gave his customers. How could they enjoy the flavor of his food when their noses were filled with--Sherlock sniffed the air--sub-par cod and peanut oil.

The first half of the lunch hour had been fine. His usual customers in his usual spot. Until this bag of bollocks tried to horn in on his customer base.

That was it. Sherlock was going over there.

He put out his “Back in 5” sign, hopped out of the truck, and locked the door behind him. The bonnet of the truck stared him right in the face, and Sherlock glared back before marching around the side of the truck not crowded with people, straight to the back, where he threw open the door and climbed in.

He shut the door behind him. “How were you ever able to get your food hygiene certificate? I’ve spotted five violations since stepping foot in here.”

The bloke lifted a load of chips from the fryer, gave it a shake, hung it on a hook, wiped his hands on his apron before turning back to the window. “You’ll have to get in line, mate.”

Sherlock sputtered. “I’m not a customer, dimwit!”

The bloke took an order and changed out money. He turned to face Sherlock head on. Wiped his hands on his apron. “You’ll still have to wait in line.”

“Do you have permission from the owner to be here?”

The bloke strode over. Stood, looming over him despite the bloke’s inferior height. Damn steps. “I have a line of customers. If you want to talk to me right now, go outside, get in line, order something, eat it, and then wait until the fucking lunch rush is done.”

Sherlock had half a mind to storm up there and dissect the bloke and his sanitation violations until he either hauled of and punched Sherlock or ran away with his tail between his legs. Instead, he felt his face heat, his heart race, his stomach drop like he’d just shattered a bottle of saffron. He opened the door behind him and backed out.

Sherlock walked back to his own truck in a daze, such a daze that it wasn’t until he got back in his truck and returned to his empty window that he realized what an arse he’d just made of himself. Letting some fish slinger kowtow him. He was Sherlock Holmes for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t going to stand for this.

He’d go back once the lunch rush was over.


	2. Chapter 2

When the last customer cleared out of the competing truck’s line, Sherlock was ready. With the exception of a few customers, Sherlock had had over an hour to devise his plan of attack. He had ample time to track down enough sanitation and fire safety violations to have the truck shut down.

Well, he would if he brought in one of his bacterial cultures, or put a little nick in the propane line. It would be so much easier if the man were filthy, but it didn’t matter. He knew the man wasn’t authorized to be here. The landowner wouldn’t dare let another food truck invade Sherlock’s territory. Besides, a little deduction about his military history and psychological problems ought to do the job, anyway.

Sherlock strode over with his chin held high, stormed in, and took all the stairs at once, leaving the door gaping behind him. He stepped up to the workstation, looming over the man.

“Now are you ready to talk?”

The man tossed the rag he was using to wipe down into the sink and rubbed his hands on his apron.

What was this? He was acting like Sherlock wasn’t even there. “Did you hear me?”

The man turned and stared up at Sherlock with piercing navy eyes. “Not until you shut the door behind you.”

Goosepimples prickled the back of Sherlock’s neck. He almost choked on the word, “No.”

The man continued to stare at him, eye contact that seemed to be made of diamonds, impossible to break. Sherlock felt unmoored from his body, like he couldn’t quite decide which way was up. His face flushed, and he wanted to cover it with his hands just because they would feel cooler.

He spun on his heel, strode to the door, and slammed it.

When he turned around, the man stood with his elbow propped up at his waist by the wrist of his opposite arm. He was holding the sides of his bottom lip between his index finger and thumb. He stroked over it. Watched Sherlock as he stood at the bottom step into the truck.

The man took in a hitched breath. “Why don’t we try it without slamming the door?”

“No.” The crack in his voice made him sound less convincing than he would have liked, and the man seemed to notice because he squared up his stance, lifted his chin, lifted an eyebrow.

Stared into Sherlock’s eyes.

And after a moment he seemed to find what he wanted because his eyes lit up and one corner of his mouth quirked.

Sherlock reached behind him, opened the door, and shut it, not slammed, but firm enough to be sure it latched.

The man nodded. “Thank you.”

He pulled loose his apron ties and tossed it aside before reaching into his back pocket, reaching into his wallet. He pulled out two laminated cards and a folded paper, which he proceeded to unfold and smooth flat against the worktop.

He gestured to them with a facetious flourish. “Here.”

Sherlock approached with caution, craning his neck to read the words before the rest of his body got close.

The man slid into Sherlock’s space and pointed to each item one by one once Sherlock sidled up. “Health and safety permit, business license, permission from the land owner.”

They all looked legitimate (though it was oddly difficult to focus with the man’s arm hair brushing Sherlock’s sleeve) all made out to John H. Watson, no signs of forgery, even down to the signature at the bottom of the letter granting him permission. One designed to be difficult to fake. Mycroft Holmes. Complete with a post script.

_Be nice, Sherlock._

John H. Watson slid the cards from the worktop and into his wallet. “I assume you’re Sherlock.”

“And I’ll—“ Sherlock cleared his throat. “And I’ll do you the courtesy of trusting that you are indeed John H. Watson.”

John H. Watson folded the note and put it away. “You can call me John.”

Sherlock’s mouth wriggled in an attempt to stifle a smile. Why was his face trying to smile, anyway? “John.”

“Or if you prefer…” John lifted his chin and examined Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock felt small under the scrutiny. Odd, since that was usually his job. But he found he didn’t mind. He found he liked it. Surprising.

He turned to face John, his breath bated, and he fought the urge to control it. He didn’t know why, but he wanted this John to see the erratic movements of his chest, the blood rushing to his face and… other places. The way his mouth dried and he had to swallow as if he had a walnut stuck in his throat.

“You can call me sir.”

Sherlock’s breath came out in a rush of air that sounded suspiciously like, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's got that BDE.


	3. Chapter 3

John hooked two fingers into the space above the top fastened button on Sherlock’s shirt and pulled, not a jerk or tug, a slow pressure as the fabric stretched across Sherlock’s back and pulled him inexorably toward the man. Down to him. John.

John tilted his head back, eyes locked to Sherlock’s, and swung his own body in just enough to make their lips brush. Sherlock felt like every breath contained several, tiny spasms that kept the air from coming smoothly. The knuckles brushing his chest and the lips hovering near his excited him like the first snort of cocaine, but this didn’t leave him sharp like a scalpel, mind firing like a gatling gun. This left his heart racing but his mind slow, fixated on two points of contact and hot breath on his upper lip and the darkest blue eyes he’d ever seen. He never knew there could be that much melanin in an iris of blue.

“Tell me what you like,” John said, though Sherlock experienced it more as a buzzing against his lips than as sound waves against his eardrums.

But belatedly, the meaning of the words made its lazy way to the language center of Sherlock’s brain. What did he like? Did he know what he liked? How was he supposed to know what he liked? He didn’t even know he enjoyed being told what to do. If someone had asked him just ten minutes ago, he would have said he’d hated it. He’d hated it every other time someone had tried it. So why did he like it now? Why were the first words he wanted to say, ‘Anything you want.’

“Hmm.” John’s fingers glided over Sherlock’s scalp. “I knew I was good, but it usually takes longer for me to render someone speechless.”

Sherlock tilted his head back as John’s hand tucked under his ear and circled his throat. He swallowed, and the hitch in John’s breath made him shiver. “Good?”

John slid his hand to Sherlock’s collarbone and let it drop. “Do you need references?”

“No!” Sherlock snapped, and the sudden spike of adrenaline shocked him out of his stupor. He hadn’t meant to say that. Why had he said it? And although John tried to hide it, he could tell that John was startled. He might try to treat Sherlock like a spooked horse, and Sherlock had had enough of that in his life, thank you. He had to get this back on track.

He knew at last count sixty-four distinct methods of flirting and which technique worked best on which people, and yet, he was at a loss. He wrapped his hand over John’s forearm, the one attached to the fingers hooked in his shirt.

“What would they say?” Sherlock asked.

John reeled Sherlock back in. “Good kisser, for a start.”

Well, something about that worked because John was enthusiastically demonstrating what he meant by ‘good kisser,” and by Sherlock’s estimation, John’s references were right. His lips were rough, chapped from harsh kitchen conditions, something Sherlock would surely suffer from if he didn’t have a lip care routine. And thank God for that because the caress of smooth against rough left Sherlock’s mouth tingling.

When John pulled away again, his hand was back around Sherlock’s throat, palm to his Adam’s apple. Sherlock leaned into it.

“Oh God, yes.” John pressed his fingertips to the sides of Sherlock’s neck enough to pull him in. “You’re just perfect, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth mirrored John’s as John held him just out of reach. “Why?”

John grinned. “Fishing for compliments?”

Sherlock shook his head, and the tumble of his own curls made his scalp tingle.

“You’re gorgeous for a start.” John stepped a little closer. “And you come in all hot and brash, but give your a firm hand”—he pressed his thumb and the ball of his hand on Sherlock’s carotids, nosed Sherlock’s ear—“and you purr like a kitten.”

Sherlock hummed, leaned into the nose at his ear, nuzzled against it.

He was rewarded by teeth grabbing onto his lobe, tugging as they scraped their way off. Sherlock’s body tried to follow, and suddenly he was off balance, toppling over like a teacup. His hand caught on the worktop just as John caught him around the waist. He wasn’t sure which was keeping him aloft, because his legs certainly weren’t.

“Yeah, maybe you should sit down.”

Sherlock shoved himself off the worktop and was pleased to find that his legs held up beneath him. He wouldn’t have this ending because he couldn’t manage himself enough not to get overwhelmed. No matter how fascinating the man or Sherlock’s reaction to him.

“No,” Sherlock stated with more confidence than he felt.

A smile flickered on John’s face and he cocked his head. “Ok, then. Kneel.”

Oh, that had a completely different effect. Excitement zinged down from Sherlock’s scalp straight to his toes with such forced that he rocked up to the balls of his feet before lowering himself to one knee, then the other. He looked up at John, and he felt small. He felt intimidated. He recognized the power he’d granted John in that one gesture, and it made him sigh as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Intriguing.

John strutted up, tantalizing close to Sherlock, close enough that a small movement would have Sherlock nuzzling the space just above John’s navel. He wondered if John would open his trousers, pull out his cock and feed it to Sherlock. Push Sherlock’s head down onto it. He wondered if he’d like that. His body’s reaction said yes. So he was a bit disappointed when the fingers in Sherlock’s hair were gentle, when the other hand hung loose by John’s side.

“Tell me what you like.” The voice was firmer this time, but that didn’t help Sherlock come up with an answer.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish until the sheer humiliation of not being able to answer the question forced him to squeeze his eyelids shut. He shrugged.

John’s voice was at his ear. “Start simple, then.”

Sherlock nodded, not daring to open his eyes.

He felt smooth pressure on his bollocks and a gentle slide up the underside of his shaft.

“Do you like that?”

Sherlock nodded, turned his head enough to find John’s ear. “Yes.”

“Would you like to get your cock out, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hurried to get his belt undone, fumbling with the buckle and stripping the thing half off, the wrong way, in his haste to get the damn thing open before John grabbed both his hands.

“Let me.”

Sherlock watched, one hand still clenched on the end of his belt, as John unbuckled his trousers, pushed the flies aside, eased Sherlock’s pants down his hips. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he was savoring the slow reveal. And the sigh John breathed when he finally pulled the waistband of Sherlock’s pants aside enough to let Sherlock’s cock spring free let Sherlock know that he was. He liked the look of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock shivered, and shivered more when John wrapped his rough hand around Sherlock’s cock. Rough from endless handwashing, calloused from a knife grip, spattered with scars from the fryer. Nothing like his own smooth, manicured hand, something different with every stroke. New sensations flooding in before he could analyze the earlier ones.

“You like that, don’t you?” Words experienced as tingles spidering their way from Sherlock’s earlobe to the base of his spine, over his back, his ass, his thighs.

Sherlock had no idea how he responded.

“Tell me you like it,” John commanded.

“I like it,” burst from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to bend you over the worktop and eat you out until you come untouched.”

Sherlock’s orgasm hit him like a freight train, though one would expect to see a freight train coming. This came out of nowhere, like an earthquake, with aftershock after aftershock.

He supposed as he came down, giddy and relaxed, that one should expect to orgasm in these situations, but not so quickly. Was that bad? He’d always assumed coming quickly was something to be avoided.

“That was lovely,” John nearly growled into Sherlock’s ear, purred like a tiger.

Sherlock hummed and blindly turned his face, bumping into John’s, seeking until he discovered lips that sealed over his and a tongue that caressed his for just a moment before John sat back on his heels, offered a glistening finger. “Care for a bit of tartar sauce?”

Slow chuckles bubbled up Sherlock’s throat, but he offered his tongue anyway, laughing even as his lips closed around John’s finger, as his tongue pushed up against it, as he sucked. John pulled his finger away slowly, letting it trail down Sherlock’s chin before wiping it and the rest of his hand clean with a napkin.

John stood, and Sherlock opened his mouth, ready for whatever John wanted to give him, but John pushed the side of his finger up under Sherlock’s chin.

Sherlock shut his mouth with a clack.

John smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s neck. “I like the suspense.”

John offered Sherlock a hand up, and Sherlock took it, pulling his clothing back into place as soon as his feet were under him.

“I--” Sherlock cleared his throat. “That was good. What you did there.”

John smiled. “I can put you down as a reference, then.”

Sherlock winced. “What?”

“I’m only joking.” John grabbed onto Sherlock’s shirt the same way he did at the beginning of all this. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Sherlock felt his face heat. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not go the way I expected. I don't even know.

**Author's Note:**

> Wait, there's a food truck?


End file.
